Grave Phantoms
Page 86
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“I won’t even ask if you’re certain,” Winter continued. “I’ve seen how you look at each other for years. And the past weeks? Christ. I knew when she came back home, Bo. I’m no fool. And I won’t lecture you on the hardships you’d be facing. You and her. And if you had any children . . .”
“I know,” Bo said, swallowing hard.
“Yes,” Winter agreed softly. “I expect you know more than anyone. It’s not an easy choice.”
“And I haven’t come to it lightly. I know I can’t marry her. Not legally. But we aren’t the first couple to face this. If the laws aren’t fair, do you blindly obey them?”
Those were Winter’s father’s words, and Bo knew he was pushing things, throwing them back in Winter’s face; his hands squeezed hard enough to leave bruises on Bo’s shoulders . . . and then loosened. He turned and walked toward the windows. “You said you’d find other work. What would you do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’d just leave me in a lurch, knowing damn well I need you?”
“You’d get by without me.”
“Would I? While you did what?”
Bo had thought about it. Quite a lot, actually. “I’d try to get work fishing. Maybe sell the Buick and buy a small boat. There’s more out there than crabs. Good money in tuna. Canneries opening up everywhere. There’s decent money to be had. Not bootlegging money, but it’s honorable work. And I read the news—Volstead won’t hold forever. Every day there’s more talk of repeal. What happens then?”
Winter crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t think I know that? Forget repeal. It’s getting goddamn dangerous. Too many people killing each other over liquor. I got one baby and another one on the way. I think about it all the time. In fact, Aida and I were just talking. She’s . . .”
“What?”
Winter gave a dismissive shrug and then scratched the back of his neck. “I mentioned this before, but it’s getting worse. She’s been hearing the same message repeated in different séances for different people. Something bad is coming—something to do with the economy. Spirits are warning their relatives to pay off their debts and get their money out of the bank before the end of the year.”
Bo temporarily forgot his own troubles. He remembered Winter mentioning this back when the yacht first crashed into the pier. “You believe it?”
“People downtown are talking about the stock market and how buying on margin can’t last forever.” Winter shrugged. “And Aida believes it, so that’s good enough for me. Got me thinking about spreading out our interests. Maybe some legitimate shipping. And like you said, picking up more fishing, too. We’ve got no debt, and I’ve got enough in savings to keep us afloat for years.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “But we aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about you. Where will you live?”
Though he was feeling more optimistic about his chances of escaping a right hook to the jaw, Bo was still wary about saying too much. “I’ll move back into my old apartment tonight. I asked Astrid to go back to school until I figured everything out. I have some ideas about apartments. People who might be persuaded to rent me a place outside of Chinatown. It won’t be here, but I’ll make sure it’s safe.”
“Bigots won’t leave Ju’s Russian Hill house alone.”
“I know,” Bo said. “I have something in mind that might be less of a risk. I just need to find a way to make it work financially.”
“You could stay here.”
Bo stilled, unsure he’d heard right. Maybe he’d mistook Winter’s meaning. “I can’t. Not downstairs.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. His pride wouldn’t let him, and if Winter didn’t understand, so be it.
“You could have the half floor. The top of the turret. We could convert it into an apartment.”
For a moment, Bo imagined this. Living upstairs. But no, he couldn’t. Independence is what he wanted. Freedom to be with Astrid. He stuck his hands in his pockets and dared to ask what he was thinking. What he was hoping, but at the same time, didn’t dare to hope. “The turret . . . Do you mean just for me? Or for Astrid, too?”
Winter strode back across the study and stopped in front of Bo. “You are both my family, her by blood and you by choice,” he said in a low voice. “There isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for either one of you. And there’s also no one I trust more with her happiness than you. So if you both want my blessing, you have it.”
An old, uncomfortable weight sprouted wings and lifted from Bo’s chest. He wanted to weep. To collapse. To fall to his knees and thank every deity in the world. He managed to keep himself together and extended a trembling hand. “Thank you, dai lo.” Big brother—and a term of respect.
Winter accepted and shook, formally, and then heartily. They both chuckled, a little nervous. Winter exhaled a long breath and added, “You’ve also got my protection, because on the trail the two of you are about to blaze, you’re damn sure going to need it.”
—
At eight o’clock the next night, Astrid waited for two workers in overalls to carry a leather sofa past her before stepping into the elevator of the Wicked Wenches’ apartment building. She instantly recognized the handsome operator in burgundy uniform—the Jack Johnson look-alike who had helped them when Bo was stabbed. His eyes widened at the sight of her.
“I know,” Bo said, swallowing hard.
“Yes,” Winter agreed softly. “I expect you know more than anyone. It’s not an easy choice.”
“And I haven’t come to it lightly. I know I can’t marry her. Not legally. But we aren’t the first couple to face this. If the laws aren’t fair, do you blindly obey them?”
Those were Winter’s father’s words, and Bo knew he was pushing things, throwing them back in Winter’s face; his hands squeezed hard enough to leave bruises on Bo’s shoulders . . . and then loosened. He turned and walked toward the windows. “You said you’d find other work. What would you do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’d just leave me in a lurch, knowing damn well I need you?”
“You’d get by without me.”
“Would I? While you did what?”
Bo had thought about it. Quite a lot, actually. “I’d try to get work fishing. Maybe sell the Buick and buy a small boat. There’s more out there than crabs. Good money in tuna. Canneries opening up everywhere. There’s decent money to be had. Not bootlegging money, but it’s honorable work. And I read the news—Volstead won’t hold forever. Every day there’s more talk of repeal. What happens then?”
Winter crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t think I know that? Forget repeal. It’s getting goddamn dangerous. Too many people killing each other over liquor. I got one baby and another one on the way. I think about it all the time. In fact, Aida and I were just talking. She’s . . .”
“What?”
Winter gave a dismissive shrug and then scratched the back of his neck. “I mentioned this before, but it’s getting worse. She’s been hearing the same message repeated in different séances for different people. Something bad is coming—something to do with the economy. Spirits are warning their relatives to pay off their debts and get their money out of the bank before the end of the year.”
Bo temporarily forgot his own troubles. He remembered Winter mentioning this back when the yacht first crashed into the pier. “You believe it?”
“People downtown are talking about the stock market and how buying on margin can’t last forever.” Winter shrugged. “And Aida believes it, so that’s good enough for me. Got me thinking about spreading out our interests. Maybe some legitimate shipping. And like you said, picking up more fishing, too. We’ve got no debt, and I’ve got enough in savings to keep us afloat for years.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “But we aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about you. Where will you live?”
Though he was feeling more optimistic about his chances of escaping a right hook to the jaw, Bo was still wary about saying too much. “I’ll move back into my old apartment tonight. I asked Astrid to go back to school until I figured everything out. I have some ideas about apartments. People who might be persuaded to rent me a place outside of Chinatown. It won’t be here, but I’ll make sure it’s safe.”
“Bigots won’t leave Ju’s Russian Hill house alone.”
“I know,” Bo said. “I have something in mind that might be less of a risk. I just need to find a way to make it work financially.”
“You could stay here.”
Bo stilled, unsure he’d heard right. Maybe he’d mistook Winter’s meaning. “I can’t. Not downstairs.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. His pride wouldn’t let him, and if Winter didn’t understand, so be it.
“You could have the half floor. The top of the turret. We could convert it into an apartment.”
For a moment, Bo imagined this. Living upstairs. But no, he couldn’t. Independence is what he wanted. Freedom to be with Astrid. He stuck his hands in his pockets and dared to ask what he was thinking. What he was hoping, but at the same time, didn’t dare to hope. “The turret . . . Do you mean just for me? Or for Astrid, too?”
Winter strode back across the study and stopped in front of Bo. “You are both my family, her by blood and you by choice,” he said in a low voice. “There isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for either one of you. And there’s also no one I trust more with her happiness than you. So if you both want my blessing, you have it.”
An old, uncomfortable weight sprouted wings and lifted from Bo’s chest. He wanted to weep. To collapse. To fall to his knees and thank every deity in the world. He managed to keep himself together and extended a trembling hand. “Thank you, dai lo.” Big brother—and a term of respect.
Winter accepted and shook, formally, and then heartily. They both chuckled, a little nervous. Winter exhaled a long breath and added, “You’ve also got my protection, because on the trail the two of you are about to blaze, you’re damn sure going to need it.”
—
At eight o’clock the next night, Astrid waited for two workers in overalls to carry a leather sofa past her before stepping into the elevator of the Wicked Wenches’ apartment building. She instantly recognized the handsome operator in burgundy uniform—the Jack Johnson look-alike who had helped them when Bo was stabbed. His eyes widened at the sight of her.
